


Clear The Stone of Leaves

by badwolf



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BDSM, Boot Worship, Coming Untouched, Does This Count as Platonic Sex?, F/M, ProDom!Andy, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolf/pseuds/badwolf
Summary: Look, if no one is going to write a Modern AU where Booker is ProDom Andy's client then what are we even doing here, really?
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Clear The Stone of Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> I had been pondering writing this for a while then a few weeks ago I had a small breakdown, got utterly blazed and wrote the whole thing in a single go. So shoutout to drugs. A bigger shout out to Nat for the beta.

Booker has no idea what Andy’s other clients are like, if she specializes in this or if Booker just hit the jackpot. Odds are she is just that damn good. Either way, he has long made peace with not knowing. The only thing stricter than the screening process is the gag order. A fact she made abundantly clear in their very first session: what happens between Andy and her clients stays strictly between them and anyone caught bragging is swiftly blacklisted. 

She’s an indulgence Booker is rarely permitted. Simply seeing her message is enough to last him days. It is always a time and date, something between a dare and an order. No point in her bothering to see if the appointment works for him, the sweet sting of humiliation as he rearranges his schedule makes any difficulties worth it. And scrambling to accommodate Andy is far better than the times she denies him. Weeks have passed before without a peep from her. 

It is probably for the best. He’d worship that woman every day of his life if she would just let him. But then again that’s why he’s here. He isn’t capable of making these types of calls about his own life. Better to let Andy take care of that. The fact Booker is ever given any time with Andy at all is a minor miracle. Each session is treated with the reverence it deserves.

Andy always texts him the door code no more than 5 minutes before each session. So far it has been a different code each time. The front door leads to what might have been a lobby, if this space wasn’t a private kink studio. Inside it was closer to a locker room. A single coat rack and cubby standing in place of a receptionist desk. Across from the cubby stands another door. 

As always there is a handwritten note waiting for him in the cubby. Like the code, the instructions are different every time, and almost always offer no insight into what Andy has in store for him.

_Shirt, shoes and socks off, everything else stays on._ It’s short and to the point. Like everything else Andy does it leaves no room for Booker to question or worry. The less rope he is given the less he can accidentally hang himself with.

No attempts have been made to camouflage the camera hanging in one corner of the room. Andy is unyielding in her studio’s procedures. Clients are told what to expect, and anyone who objects can leave. Booker has never objected, the thought has never even crossed his mind. Despite the camera, the knowledge Andy is probably watching, he undresses quickly and efficiently. 

The second door leads into the studio. Or at least a studio, he has no idea if there are more studios through the back door, he’s never even seen what might be the rest of the space. For all he knows she could have multiple sessions running each time he visits, some pathetic bastard Booker likes to pretend he is better than left waiting for his mistress to return, unaware she’s entertaining someone else. The idea sends a jolt of arousal straight to his dick.

Booker pushes the thought away, now is not the time for him to be coming up with his own ideas. He pauses at the plain black door, one last rundown of the mental checklist. Dressed to Andy’s specifications. His personal items and clothes neatly folded and stowed in the cubby. Nothing forgotten or left out of place. 

The space changes in some aspects each time, though not much. This time the change is enough to pull Booker up short.

Instead of the usual rack of tools and toys or the odd piece of kink furniture and equipment, the space is almost empty. A single chair sitting in the middle of the room, with just a small upholstered cushion on the floor in front of it. It almost looks like the mat his mother uses when gardening, only this item is covered in black leather, not flower prints. With not many options, Book lowers himself into position, head down, hands clasped behind his back. He quickly becomes grateful for the mat as he settles in to wait.

Wearing blue jeans was a mistake, the material doesn’t have enough stretch to make the position even close to comfortable. The harsh seams quickly start to bite into his skin and make themselves known. Did Andy plan for that? He’s worn jeans to every session, at least he thinks he has. But he’s either been stripped of them soon enough or the position he was put into didn’t call attention to how restrictive denim really is. 

Vague discomfort soon gives way to acute panic. It is already painful and he can’t have been kneeling for more than a few minutes. Surely not much longer than 10 minutes, maximum. Yet a fine tremor of pain is boring its way into him. How much longer? He can’t keep this up for long. 

But Andy wants him to kneel and wait. 

So he waits.

Andy’s heavy combat boots announce her presence long before he can see her. This too is part of the ritual. No looking until she allows it. Their first session had been brutal, his every action met with derision and correction. But Booker was always quick on the uptake. If she was bothering to correct him it meant she was probably going to keep him as a client, otherwise she would just tell him to leave. Now her footfall is a balm to the swarm of ant bites prickling his thighs and knees. His pain is worth it because it’s what she asked of him. The one thing in his life he hasn’t fucked up yet. 

It takes all Booker’s effort not to look up when her shadow crosses his peripheral vision. Instead, he holds his position, simply revels in the burn of her attention as she circles him. Eventually she shows mercy.

“You may look now,” Her voice is deep, but soft. 

It’s a simple, minimalist chair, but god she makes it seem like a throne, the way she drapes herself over it. Booker allows himself a moment to commit the sight to memory. Andy is wearing the same simple style of clothing she seems to prefer. Black skinny jeans, a loose black tank top and black laced-up cloth gauntlets of some kind. Casual through and through, but she wears it in such a way it might as well be armour of the highest caliber. 

“My boots are dirty,” She says with no preamble, sticking one long leg out. 

That’s new. While filling out the contract with Andy he had marked boot kink as neutral, not his thing but willing enough to do it. Was this a test? Did she want to push his limits or was it a punishment? 

“Stop thinking and clean my fucking boot, Booker.” The tone in Andy’s voice left no room for argument or misinterpretation. An order but not yet a reprimand. A simple black leather combat boot, utterly fitting for Andy and thankfully easy enough to tend to, thrust in front of his face. Shifting his center of gravity down, he leaned forward.

Andy’s attention weighs on him like a physical force. In the past Booker may have, at one point or another, been tempted to turn his work into a show or attempt to tease Andy. But not anymore. It hadn’t taken Andy long to break him of that habit. 

Instead, he simply does as directed, trusting Andy to guide him through the order. The taste of leather is unpleasant, but that is all Booker tastes as he licks along her insole. It’s a mindless enough task to devote himself to, following the grooves and stitches in the boot until Andy shifts and gives him a new focus. The sensation of each stitch and hem against his tongue is oddly soothing, easily bringing him under and into a place of calm and the first flickers of arousal. 

“God you really are a slut,” Andy scoffs at him. Time becomes somewhat elastic, his focus on the task given to him consuming everything. At some point Andy switched position, but Booker can’t quite pin down how long ago he switched to her left boot. Similarly he can’t quite pin down the exact moment his cock decided they were no longer neutral on boot worship. He was hard in his pants, no memory of when or what. The rising need breaks through on the periphery of his awareness.

“Or maybe you aren’t just a leather slut, maybe it’s not the boots at all.” They both know she knows the answer. This, too, is just part of the ritual, her letting him feel filleted under her all-seeing judgment. Above him Andy shifts, drawing her boot away from him. “Maybe you are just **that** desperate you're into whatever the hell I want you to be into?”

Booker closes his eyes and ducks his head down. There is no point in replying, the tenting of his jeans is the only answer she needs. Not that she actually wanted an answer from him. This is one of the few things he picked up naturally with Andy, the ability to feel when she was asking and when she was rubbing salt in the wound. 

The sharp edge of her heel suddenly hooks into Booker’s back, just below the shoulder, directing him down to the floor. Booker lowers himself without complaint until he is as flush to the ground as possible without coming out of the kneel. The tile is surprisingly cool against his cheek. 

“Maybe I should keep you like this,” Andy muses. “Keep you as mine, whatever I want you to be. Force you to be my footstool for hours.”

Her second boot presses down, crossing at the ankle of the first. A shift in her position brings more of her body weight down onto him. His breath is impeded just enough to make him aware of every inhale. A reminder that she is allowing him to breathe, for now.

“I bet you would like that, huh Booker?” A quick dig of her heel to punctuate the question. “Yeah, you would love it. Being my kept boy. I might even let you bathe me.”

His hips are only shifting minutely, the smallest uncontrollable twitch, but even that brush of cloth against over sensitive skin has him on edge. She’s right, he would love that. God how he would love that, give anything for that.

“That could be your reward,” She continues. “If you are good enough, you can wash my hair for me.”

His own orgasm blindsides him, ripping through him so suddenly it’s all Booker can do to desperately cling to his position, nails digging in where his hands are clasped against the temptation of moving. 

Andy plants her foot flat on his back and digs in, pinning his torso to the floor as his hips shake through the urge to rut against something, anything. But the position traps him, prevents his body from rebelling and seeking out the friction he so desperately wants. 

They stay like that, though Andy gradually lessens the pressure once Booker’s squirming subsides. It’s hard enough for Booker to mark the passage of time when he’s here, but it’s damn near impossible when he is this fucked out. Hours or seconds could be passing and Booker can’t bring himself to care. Andy will take care of everything. The sound of her steady breathing and the weight of her boot on his back are the only sensations tethering him to reality. 

Eventually, Andy shifts above him, the feel of her boot tread disappearing as she pulls herself into a less languid position. Booker shifts his weight back, preparing to right himself as well, only to be drawn up short by the wet tacky sensation of his own come smearing across his softening cock. He has to take several grounding breaths to stave off the ghost of frisson running down his spine. 

“Good Boy,” Andy says. She places her boot in front of his face once more. It’s a bit tricky, maintaining his balance and kneel while leaning forward enough to place a kiss on the toecap, but every second is worth it when Andy smiles at him. He must have pleased her today, to be allowed such a reward. 

“Take what time you need,” She instructs. “When you're ready to come up there are wipes by your clothes. I’ll send you the date of your next session in a few weeks.” 

It’s a good thing Andy accepts his grunt as affirmation enough. It’s doubtful he could manage more at the moment. Her heavy footsteps fade, eventually cut off by the closing of a door. Slowly, his body comes back to him. Sensations and control return as the room falls into focus around him. 

The wipes are where they always are, and cleaning himself is as unpleasant as always. But the lightness in his soul more than eclipses that. Breaths come easier as he redresses than when he disrobed. The afterglow carries him from the studio and back into the world.


End file.
